


Bitter Ending

by Tyelperintal



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Death of an OC, Loss of Limbs, M/M, Poor Celebrimbor, Sauron's attempts at gaslighting are neither subtle nor effective, Unhappy Ending, Violence, he's just foul!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tyelperintal/pseuds/Tyelperintal
Summary: “Unwilling?” Sauron smirked as he drew to a halt in front of Celebrimbor’s prone form, looming above him with the sharp lines of his armor accentuating his height. “Pitiful; you even try to deceive yourself. Have you forgotten how you welcomed me, desperate for praise and eager to advance your skill alongside mine? Even at the end you did not force me out.”On the steps of the crafting hall in Ost-in-Edhil, an overdue confrontation.
Relationships: Celebrimbor | Telperinquar/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 1
Kudos: 17





	Bitter Ending

**Author's Note:**

> Technically a companion piece to my fic [Laurelairë](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25813882/chapters/62705977), but it's not really necessary to read that one first.

A few minutes ago, silver ash had begun to spiral down over the courtyard, drifting in like the snow in early spring.

A city of stone should not have burned, but the smooth edifice of marble posed no deterrent to the ranks of orcs. In their regimented march towards the Sirannon Vale, they had brought siege engines, and launched devices over the city walls to crash and explode against the once vibrant shops and homes in the outer tiers of Ost-in-Edhil. The gardens caught the flames and kindled them; Celebrimbor’s hollies were burning.

Some of the tears that had escaped the corners of his eyes, despite his best efforts to hold them in, were shed on account of the trees. He had watched them grow from saplings, cared for them after carrying them from the foothills into the tended gardens of his city. In return they had greeted him on his walks with their vibrant berries and glossy leaves, and he had loved to capture their bold likeness in the jewelry he fashioned, in the banners he hung, in the embroidery on his clothing.

Reduced to ash, to quivering flecks of grey—the hollies had not deserved such a cruel fate.

_I am sorry,_ Celebrimbor thought as he held out a gloved hand and let a few wisps gather in his palm. _I would have helped you escape too, if I could._

His people were gone, for the most part. That much he had achieved, and it was one of the few things that still helped him draw breath into his lungs at a steady pace, in and out. Only a few of the oldest and most tired Noldor had remained to face a certain death here alongside their idiot of a leader; Celebrimbor doubted any of them yet survived. After all, the pounding of iron orc-boots was growing louder and louder with their advance, and the guttural shouting and jeering grew more distinct with each passing minute.

He had been separated from the others when the vanguard pushed through the gate, and while he had not intended to flee, in his disorientation amidst the fires he had found himself stumbling back to the wide avenue leading up to the great crafting halls. The smoke continued to sting Celebrimbor’s eyes as it drifted upwards to the crest of the hill, oily and dark, and more than once he had coughed while he waited for the orcs and their leader to find him again. With the back of a hand whose tremors he was trying to suppress, he wiped at the corners of his eyes.

_Clench the muscle and release._ That was what Taerhethil had told him when the problem had grown apparent during their training weeks ago, after the reality of the upcoming battle had finally sunken in. The sword Celebrimbor wielded gave him a convenient distraction, and he took turns gripping the hilt as tight as if he was trying to crush it under his grasp, and then letting it nearly drop from lax fingers, fantasizing about what swift blow would let him finally release it like so.

His imagination might have been aided if he’d had more than passing experience of battle. Though his earliest memories of the East had been of drawn blades and desperate defense, he had never been a warrior of any talent or renown. He had fled Himlad and Nargothrond instead of defending them, and he had fled from Sirion when whispers arose of impending battle, and ever since he had turned his head and found excuses not to pick up arms when it could have been asked of him. Few had ever pressed him on it, but if anyone had cared to piece it all together and accuse him of cowardice, he supposed he would have little to counter with.

He could have run this time, too. Lindon or Lorien might have sheltered him, with the help of the treasures he had granted.

He _should_ have fled--

And then the guilt could have slowly killed him while his people looked at him with pity and resentment for what he had done to them, for what he had allowed to fester. His pride was such that a stray orc-arrow or a falling tower or the heavy weight of Sauron’s mace crushing the breastplate of his armor and his rib bones beneath it all sounded like a quicker and preferable way to depart than being consumed by his shame, though, so here he waited.

By no means was it quiet in the courtyard in front of the great crafting halls of the Gwaith-i-Mírdain, while the city crumbled around him, but Celebrimbor’s feeble laugh sounded too loud to his ears all the same.

The orc-arrows thus far had not been obliging.

The hand that did not grasp the sword was shaking as well, but there was a warm pulse from his ring finger, where a golden band inlaid with a ruby stone encircled. It fit over the thin black leather of his glove; the band would have adjusted to suit any bearer, which was at least not among the enchantments Annatar had taught as part of his diabolical scheming, but rather an old skill of elven smiths. The trick had begun as a courtesy, in anticipation of gifts given and favors traded and legacies passed along.

Celebrimbor was trying not to dwell on legacies now. It was the gnawing need to compete with his grandfather’s talent that had persuaded him to accept lessons in ring-crafting, after all, and while he might have known that neither luck nor skill ever seemed to work in his favor, the outcome had still been worse than he could have anticipated. _To evil end shall all things turn;_ he had not forgotten. The words had been a constant refrain, like the music of a running stream on its path into the Sirannon.

He angled his head back, blinking a fleck of ash away from his red-rimmed eyes.

Nearby he could hear the crash of stone toppling as a statue was wrenched from its podium and thrown into the street. That was likely the work of the orc hordes, but Celebrimbor could feel a different sort of dread settling in the pit of his stomach like a weight. Grotesque as the orcs were, to be overwhelmed and hacked into pieces by their crude weapons was not the worst outcome, hence his fantasies about straying arrows.

He knew even before the sense of dread began to pound in his ears with each heartbeat that it would not come to that, though. Their Lieutenant had marched with them, and Celebrimbor knew the destruction of the city was only a secondary goal, collateral damage along the way as they sought another prize.

At the far end of the pavilion, there was a sudden wave of flame, cresting at the top of a series of marble-cut stairs and bursting outwards and upwards towards the night sky. Celebrimbor felt the heat of it brush his face, and he flinched, his fingers clenching around the hilt of his sword once again. Inside his chest, his heart lurched, and the pace of its beating grew frantic as if it was making a bid to flee all on its own.

When the flames dissipated, they revealed a tall, silhouetted figure. The fire might have been enough to make Celebrimbor’s skin crawl and sweat, but he still found himself seized by a chill, like the fingers of an icy hand dragging along the length of his spine.

_Annatar,_ he thought, even while another part of his mind corrected him. _Sauron; Gorthaur;_ any name but the lie he had fallen for, the one that purported generosity where none existed.

The black armor accentuated long legs, broad shoulders; gold inlay caught the flickering light of the fires, and beneath the sharp pointed helm that concealed the molten fire of his eyes and left only a smirking red mouth visible, the locks of his hair seemed to pick up the hues of the flame.

He was dragging something along at his side, and as Celebrimbor’s eyes focused, he felt bile rise in his throat to realize it was a body, armored in sable and silver. Under their dark hair, their face was bloodied, and though Sauron dragged them by their shield arm, the sword arm was missing, torn clean away from the body.

Taerhethil, the friend he had trained with. Had he suffered long? Had the loss of limb killed him, or was that an afterthought meant to evoke fear and loathing? If the latter, then he had at least succeeded in inspiring the reaction he wanted—if a glance alone could carry enough power to kill, the loathing in Celebrimbor’s expression would have done considerable damage.

Yet his attention was divided, even when confronted with his friend’s death; it clearly had not been an accident which iron-covered hand was locked around Taerhethil’s limp arm, nor an accident that Sauron’s fingers were angled just so. Celebrimbor’s gaze was forced to linger, because on the Maia’s hand was a noticeable glow of gold, a pure band that stood out against the blackened gauntlet. Illuminated script danced across the surface, although Celebrimbor was still too far to make out the letters amidst the ash and flame and blood.

He could still _feel_ it. Through the ring on his own finger, like something whispering … whispering an acknowledgement to a fellow conspirator in a coded language. A reunion planned in secret, and successfully orchestrated, triumphant in the realization.

The tip of Celebrimbor’s tongue tasted something acrid, and his eyes once again smarted with the prick of tears. Was it the lick of heat from the flames? The scent of blood? The sight of his jewelsmith, disfigured and dragged like refuse? The realization of a battle about to start that he knew he could not win? He had to force his next breath through seizing muscles in his throat, and although the ground seemed to bend and pitch in front of him, he did not think it was the work of orc-engines.

Another device, though. Fairer and more refined, and not the lesser evil.

The Maia’s saunter was casual; Celebrimbor knew it well, having seen the same careless curiosity displayed within the crafting halls and libraries. Within his own home, where Annatar-- _Sauron_ \--had decided he was welcome.

Celebrimbor took an involuntary step backwards up the stairs of the crafting hall, sword pointed in Sauron’s direction as he tried to gain control of his breaths, of the tremors that threatened to take the rest of his arm. The fight yet might be mercifully short, the way the blade visibly shook under an unskilled hand--it was not as if he had any delusions about being able to best Morgoth’s Lieutenant in combat and somehow still fight his way through the ranks of goblins that had overrun Ost-in-Edhil. He had lingered with the intent of dying here, and forestalling that moment in a test of blades would only be for the purpose of salvaging some meagre sense of pride, if he could. A small act of redemption in the face of overwhelming errors of judgement. 

Not, of course, that he _deserved_ that much. Pride was for warriors who fought for noble reasons, like Taerhethil who had insisted on remaining for loyalty’s sake.

Sauron was not yet to the center of the courtyard when he heaved the elf’s body ahead of him, tossing it unceremoniously to the foot of the steps. The Ring flashed on his hand with the movement, and for one drawn second, Celebrimbor felt that the courtyard had gone still and quiet. Even the breeze released the ends of his dark hair and let it fall limply against his back, unfettered as it was without a helm to protect his head.

“How kind of you to send a greeting party to the gates,” Sauron greeted, splitting the calm of the moment with his sharp tone. His voice held new richness; not the restrained politeness with which Annatar spoke, but something fully saccharine to the point of rottenness. “Your craftsmen were most obliging.”

Not so long ago, those craftsmen had been Annatar’s students. Something had been missing from Celebrimbor’s frantic moods as he anticipated the inevitable fight, and he recognized it at its boiling resurgence—anger. Anger to match the fires that had taken the city. To massacre his own students, who had trusted him and listened intently to his lectures for love of their craft—there was never any doubt as to the cruelty of Morgoth’s servants, but could he have made a more sickening display of it?

“Save it,” Celebrimbor snarled, his voice straining. “I have heard enough from you.”

Sauron angled his head, and laughed. It still had an echo of fairness lingering at the edges, and it still made Celebrimbor’s ears ache. “You misunderstand. I did not come to fight. I came to parley. Lay down your weapon and talk to me as you once did.”

For a moment, Celebrimbor allowed himself to close his eyes, to try and compose himself. The bitter smoke lingered in his nostrils as the ash settled in his hair; a bead of sweat was making its way down the side of his face. The muscles of his hand seemed to be in contest with his throat for who could be the most strained.

“There are no offers you could make to me that I would accept. Why bother?”

“I can smell your fear,” Sauron said, drifting another step closer. It was not quite an answer. “As I smelled it on your smiths before I killed them. Why are you trembling? I am angry with you, but if you plead with me enough, I will show you that I can be merciful.”

Sauron carried no weapon with him, but he was close enough now that he could have crossed a blade with Celebrimbor’s if he wished to meet the challenge. Celebrimbor once again made an attempt to step backwards, further up the steps to the crafting hall, but as he did so, Sauron suddenly swept a hand forward and knocked the sword aside with ease. It clattered down the steps as Celebrimbor watched helplessly, coming to rest near the discarded body of the jewelsmith.

One of Sauron’s gauntleted hands reached for Celebrimbor’s other arm, sharply hoisting it upwards so he could examine it. The crude movement sent a shock of pain through the elf’s shoulder, while the heat of Sauron’s hand—searing, even through the iron gauntlet—felt hot enough to raise blisters against his wrist.

The visor of Sauron’s black helm obscured his eyes, but Celebrimbor could feel the force of his gaze through it, fixed upon his ring finger. Scrutinizing, digging, flaying. The more he struggled against the iron grasp, the more the black fingers tightened, until suddenly the Maia’s red mouth split into a snarl, teeth bared. 

“Do you take me for a fool?”

Celebrimbor’s heart leapt into his throat.

The ring on his finger bore the likeness of the Ring he had called _Narya_ , but it shared little of its true power. This was nothing more than a test before the true labor began, to make sure that he had the skill to perfect the craft even without Annatar’s guidance. He had slipped it on half with the delusion that he could convince Sauron it was the real Ring, and so deter him from seeking Narya; he had worn it half because it had comforted him, for the small flutter of courage it was meant to evoke in its bearer. But of course the first deception had no hope of persuading the master of Ring-craft, and the only person who looked foolish now was Celebrimbor himself.

Sauron’s hand grasped Celebrimbor’s palm, and he tilted the fingers backwards to examine them.

The sound was the first warning, audible even above the pounding of Celebrimbor’s heart and the hiss of fires, the booted feet of orcs on the marble roads. It was the sound of bone cracking under the pressure of iron. Then the tearing of leather, and beneath it, splitting skin and muscle.

A splatter of blood hit Sauron’s armor. More of it spurted, and crimson coursed down Celebrimbor’s hand, beneath the ripped leather to drip down his wrist in a hot rivulet. The ring came away from Celebrimbor’s hand—along with the finger inside of it and the one adjacent, ripped away from the hand once the bone was severed. Fingers and ring alike were tossed aside unceremoniously onto the steps beside them, and even as Celebrimbor began to cry out in pain and horror, the sound was cut off by Sauron’s hand flying from the freshly torn wound to grasp his throat instead. He gripped with enough force to bruise, and Celebrimbor could not tell if the slick blood had come from his hand, or whether another cut had been split into the side of his neck.

_Make it quick,_ Celebrimbor thought frantically as his vision began to blur and dance with spots. Let him lie at the foot of the crafting hall’s grand entrance next to the body of his jewelsmith, and have the fires consume them there together.

With concentrated effort, he might have made the plea audible in Sauron’s mind, if it was not clearly written in his face already, desperate and pained and perhaps with tear tracks still visible at the edges of red-rimmed eyes.

Sauron drew back his arm, and _threw_.

Celebrimbor’s back collided with the doors of the crafting hall with such force as to splinter them. There had been no lock holding them together, and they gave way with a crack, yawning open to reveal the entrance hall. His armor clattered as it hit the tiled floor, his head cracking down hard a second later, and he rolled thrice before his body came to rest face-down in the center of the vestibule.

* * *

For a long moment, he was unable to move, stunned and disoriented. A ringing sound had risen in his ears, and he could feel blood welling in his mouth and past his lips; a new sharp pain gradually made itself known in his chest when he fought to draw in another breath. His hand still throbbed as blood continued to spout from the gaping wound, and it was just as well that his vision wouldn’t cooperate yet—Celebrimbor knew if he looked, he’d feel sick, and the last thing he needed to add to his injuries was a heaving stomach.

His hand …

_His hand._ It was irrational under the circumstances, but the sudden fear struck him that he would not be able to craft with his hand disfigured like that.

If only his uncle was here; Celebrimbor had once been afraid to look at the severed end of his arm, and found his most direct glances were the ones he could not escape in his nightmares. But Maedhros had adapted well, and he—

No. Not _them._ Not now, even if the banners that fluttered in the hall bore the image of the family’s eight-pointed star. Solemn witnesses to the pitiful show before them; he ought to have taken them down when he still had the chance, folded them away with the rest of the possessions he had no more need for.

The loss of the ring had dulled Celebrimbor’s senses, and he sluggishly raised his head. The battered doors were glowing about the edges, red with the distant flames, and shimmering yellow as Sauron continued his leisurely pace past the threshold; when Celebrimbor fully blinked his eyes open, the sharp edges of the black armor were outlined there.

Celebrimbor coughed, littering the floor with more droplets of blood; there were dark smears of it leading from the door to where he lay, accentuated against the pale marble.

“I do not appreciate you trying to deceive me.” Sauron’s voice echoed amidst the lofty ceiling. “Did you think I would not find out about your secret craft? The Rings you have made without my permission?”

Celebrimbor’s head spun. “You…” More blood trickled past his lips; his tongue felt clumsy and swollen from where he had bitten down on it too hard. “Your… secret….”

“We are not the same.” Sauron’s footfall came down heavily; one of the ornate tiles cracked beneath his boot. “It is my craft, and I am its Master. You are my servant, nothing more; and you have disappointed me.”

The anger. Celebrimbor still had that. He glared, and his good hand curled into a fist where it propped him up. He needed to stand… find something to fight back with… there might be a sword, or an ornamental spear, somewhere within the crafting hall. His legs were not broken, and he still had the use of his better hand.

“I am not your servant,” he hissed. “I was never your servant, unless it was unwillingly.”

“Unwilling?” Sauron smirked as he drew to a halt in front of Celebrimbor’s prone form, looming above him with the sharp lines of his armor accentuating his height. “Pitiful; you even try to deceive yourself. Have you forgotten how you welcomed me, desperate for praise and eager to advance your skill alongside mine? Even at the end you did not force me out.”

Celebrimbor shuddered; his voice was barely above a whisper, and he imagined the banners were fluttering slightly against their mounting high on the walls. “I should have.”

Sauron nudged the sharp edge of his boot next to the bloodied and ragged edge of the elf’s hand. “Look at me when I am speaking,” he commanded. “There. That was not so hard. Indeed, since you were so eager for my praise before, let me give some to you now—few of my allies have been so cooperative as you. I never expected to find an elf whose aspirations so nearly matched my own; we still might build great things together, as long as you undo your error and submit to me as you once did.”

Celebrimbor grit his teeth, determined not to cry out again despite the pain radiating from the wound where his fingers should have been. “I told you. I am not your ally.”

The words before had been excessively honeyed, and so like Sauron’s voice that verged on the wrong side of rottenness, Celebrimbor had found himself more repulsed than swayed. But he hadn’t expected Sauron to suddenly give another furious snarl in response, the snare after the bait. “Indeed. An ally would not have _betrayed_ me.”

Quick as lightning, he raised his iron boot, and brought it down again on Celebrimbor’s bleeding hand. More bones cracked, and Sauron twisted his heel. Celebrimbor’s scream resonated when it tore itself from his throat, and again his vision gave way to static, punctuated only by the fresh heat of tears spilling from behind his lashes.

It had died down to a choked whimper when Sauron spoke again, back to the cloying sweetness that reminded more of Annatar’s encouraging touches when they had studied together in the libraries, comparing notes on enchantments and their mechanics. “I am sorry it has come to this, Tyelperinkë, but I will forgive you if you tell me where they are hidden.”

Celebrimbor shook his head slowly; another tear trickled down his cheek with the movement.

There was a pooling of dark silk fabric in the puddle of blood that spread out on the floor in front of him. Sauron kneeled, his tall frame folding as if in accommodation. The helm still obscured his eyes, for which Celebrimbor was thankful—the force of the Maia’s will pressing against his own already made him feel as if his armor was being peeled back, and his skin, and the flesh beneath. He wished it would—the wounds were not so severe, save for his disfigured hand, but it was still likely only a taste of worse things yet to come.

“Even if I knew where they were,” Celebrimbor answered, blood trickling over his lip again as he spoke, “I would sooner die than tell you.”

Sauron smiled, in mockery of sympathy. “Sooner? Death can be as prolonged or as swift as I choose. With your cooperation…”

The gauntleted hand crept back and alighted beneath Celebrimbor’s chin, tilting it upwards at an angle sharp enough to raise pain in the bones of his neck and across the swell of his throat. “It can be very simple. You give me what I want. I give you what you want. Do not all relationships depend on reciprocity? No doubt you see this as a betrayal, but recall that you betrayed me first. This is your wrong to right.”

The hand released its grip on his chin, but only so that it could scrape up the side of his face towards the locks of dark hair that escaped their braids and fell in front of his face, a movement that mimicked a caress. But the edges were too sharp and the heat too uncomfortable, even if he proceeded to brush the loose strands away with surprising tenderness.

“Think on it, Tyelperinkë. Think on it and know that your city and your jewelsmiths are lost, and they have no more need of you; but you are yet needed to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> The idea wouldn't leave me alone, so I had to write it and I am sorry for posting this on Christmas week
> 
> Will I ever write Celebrimbor/Annatar as more than just uncomfortable suggestiveness amidst a sea of deliberate miscommunication? Stay tuned to find out!


End file.
